


The Gyptian Caravan Affair

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: UNCLE through the Aurora [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed by their Imperial Russian guides before they even reach their goal near the Polish-Ukrainian border, Napoleon and Illya find themselves guests of a Gyptian caravan. Their mission was to find some technology stolen by Thrush from Imperial Russian scientists, but the Gyptians have their own 'mission' for the UNCLE men. Naturally, these two missions will prove to be one and the same, and a horror from Illya's past will prove to be the key.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: "...never working with the Imperial Russian Security Service again."

**Author's Note:**

> First, Special thanks to my "His Dark Materials" beta: Avery1
> 
> Second, I am clearly playing fast and loose with Mr Pullman's canon here, as his 'Gyptians are riverboat folk, and mine are typical caravan type nomads. Also, I suppose that this story takes place in a more modern universe than Pullman's, which is more like ours politically. I'm keeping the boys and UNCLE in something like a 1960s/Cold War setting. The biggest difference historically will be that European Communism never took hold, and the major power in Eastern Europe is the Russian Empire, ruled by Czar Michael IV.
> 
> Third: Togsos made me some pretty, pretty piccies to go with this story, and you can find them [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Man_From_UNCLE_50_Bang/works/2401730)
> 
> Napoleon's dæmon: Saphinamerilyn or Saphina, a black panther
> 
> Illya's dæmon: Pashapyrlitsei or Pasha, a silver and blue arctic fox
> 
> April Dancer's dæmon: Seifakyree or 'Kyree, an American Kestral
> 
> Mark Slate's dæmon: Kesalyssa or 'Lyssa, a black footed ferret

****

 

**Prologue: "...never working with the Imperial Russian Security Service again."**

Napoleon woke to the symphony of aches and pains that generally results from throwing oneself out of a rapidly moving car on a mountain road. Beyond the aches, however, someone or something was licking his left hand —which also hurt, though the licks did soothe it, a little bit. Something in the nature of the touch let Napoleon know, before he even opened his eyes, that this was Pasha, Illya's arctic fox dæmon, telling him that Illya was up and on his way to finding him.

Napoleon's own dæmon, currently a large warm weight on his feet, now began to stir, shaking herself as she stood, to dislodge the scattering of leaves and dirt which they'd both acquired in their tumble down the hill. Saphina was as fastidious as her counterpart and hated having anything marring her sleek, black panther's coat.

Slowly, using the hand that didn't hurt, Napoleon began to lever himself up and take in his surroundings. It seemed he'd fetched up against a tree, possibly head first, halfway down a steep, leaf littered hillside. Far above him he could see the battered guard rail of the road they'd been travelling on, and further along to the left the place where the car had broken through.

"There you are," Illya's voice came from behind him and downslope. "Excellent extemporaneous camouflage, though possibly superfluous, given that our former 'guides' are all dead."

"Well that's saved us a bit of trouble," Napoleon said with a grimace, tenderly locating the goose-egg on the back of his skull and determining that it was no more than that. "I'm telling you right now, we are never working with the Russian Imperial Security Service again."

"You'll get no argument from me," Illya said, reaching out to help Napoleon to his feet. "Say, what happened to your hand?"

"It hurts," commented Saphina in a pained voice. "More than it should."

Napoleon had already noticed that his hand ached badly, but assumed that he'd hit it, or possibly broken it, striking something on the way down the hill. He hadn't examined it closely yet, but now that he did he saw that it was swollen and darkening in color, and that there was a pair of parallel slices over the back of it, around two inches long. The memory returned in a flash at the sight, of one of their captors' dæmons —a viper of some sort— reaching across, fangs outthrust, in an attempt to bite Napoleon as he left the out-of-control and speeding car. Apparently it had succeeded, to the point of breaking Napoleon's skin, at any rate.

"Sergei's viper, I think," Napoleon replied, carefully testing his left hand for broken bones or any other type of injury. He found none.

"You're saying that another man's dæmon bit you?" Illya asked a touch incredulously. One person's dæmon almost never touches another person —the violation was unspeakable. There were exceptions, of course, but generally only for the most extreme situations or the most intimate relationships. The fact that Illya's Pasha did occasionally touch Napoleon and that Napoleon's Saphina did occasionally touch Illya was something neither one of them discussed.

The question of whether a dæmon with the form of a venomous animal would actually be effectively venomous had never crossed Napoleon's mind before. Nonetheless, Napoleon knew what a poisonous snakebite looked like. What was happening to his hand looked a lot like that.

"It was just as I was diving out of the car," Napoleon said, trying to remember exactly what had happened in those last confusing moments.

"Perhaps," Saphina continued thoughtfully, "he knew that the driver was dead already, and probably figured he was done-for himself."

"A last desperate, act," Illya mused. "I suppose that's possible."

"If there was ever a situation in which a dæmon might be poisonous," Saphina reflected, "that might just be it."

Illya stepped back now to look Napoleon over, assessing, just as Napoleon had done for himself. Aside from the usual assortment of bruises and stiff joints, nothing else seemed badly out of order, so the four of them made their way across the wooded hillside till they met up with the descending road.

Illya had suggested that if they stayed on this little-used road they'd probably, eventually, run into an abandoned gamekeeper's cottage or some other old empty building where they could lay low and recover for a day or two. Saphina advised that they let Illya lead for now, trusting that whatever other details might be important, their partner would see to them. Napoleon had no idea what instincts the man was following, taking various turnings from among the narrow mountain tracks. Overall they seemed to be going downhill, for which Napoleon was grateful.

Once, when they passed close to a cold mountain stream, Illya tore off a bit of his shirt to soak in the icy water and wrap around Napoleon's hand, and Napoleon had nodded in the affirmative when Illya had asked if it was better. It was, but to such a small degree that it hardly made any difference, and an hour or two later the heat from his fevered arm had driven all the water out of the cloth. Napoleon badly wanted to sit and rest, but Saphina reminded him that once he'd stopped it would be impossible to get going again. After a time, it was all Napoleon could do to stay upright and put one foot in front of the other. Whatever of his focus remained was taken up with _not_ thinking how much his hand, and now his arm too, hurt. The rest of the trip passed in a fog.

Napoleon had finally become aware, in a vague way, that the day's light was fading, when, to his utter shock, they stopped. They'd come to a clearing, a sloping meadow scattered with a variety of wildflowers all tinted beautifully by the long angled, golden light of the setting sun. At the bottom of the clearing there ran a stretch of river, whose splashing song Napoleon could hear from where Illya was settling him at the base of a tree.

"I'm just going to have a word with these people," Illya said. "See if I can't impose ourselves upon their hospitality."

_What people?_ Napoleon thought, then felt Saphina's nudge against his shoulder. "Look there", she said directing Napoleon's gaze to where something unnaturally colorful could be seen between a copse of trees at the river bank. _Caravans!_ Napoleon realized. _Gyptians Caravans!_

A band of Gyptians would represent perhaps the closest thing to civilization, here in the rugged Carpathian mountains, for hundreds of miles in any direction. It would seem that Solo's luck had struck again.


	2. Act 1: Enter, the Gyptians

"We speak the language," Pasha assured Illya, his silver fox ears pricked up in confidence. "They'll at least hear you out."

"They'd better," Illya muttered, knowing he had no choice, in any event. Before today Illya would have said that a dæmon with the form of a venomous animal could not possibly carry real venom, but Napoleon's injuries strongly suggested otherwise. His condition was worsening, and his life very much in danger if they could not get help.

Most days, Illya thought about his childhood, and the grandmother who'd raised him during part of it, as little as possible. The language she'd taught him, however, and Illya's ability to speak it still, could well make the difference in just how hospitable the group camped at the riverbank would be now. Shifting rusty linguistic gears in his head, Illya began framing a carefully polite greeting as he approached the circle of caravans. He walked in the open, hands clearly visible and empty, and Pasha trotted beside him, ears and tail up in the most cordial of body language.

When Illya had gotten more than two thirds of the way across the meadow, a tall man stepped away from the camp, walking slowly up the slope Illya came down. He had the dark curly hair typical of Gyptians, which he wore down to his shoulders. His clothing was also typical homespun, decorated everywhere with colorful embroidery. Perched on his shoulder sat his dæmon, a hedgehog. 

"Cautious, with a prickly personality," Illya predicted. Pasha curled the left side of his upper lip in a wry smile. "And what do you think he makes of us?" he asked, eyes on the harness and handgun visible under Illya's jacket.

"Sly," Illya answered without hesitation. "Secretive, not to be trusted, initially, at any rate."

"Well," Pasha said, not contradicting him, "perhaps speaking his language will help."

Illya passed him an only partially reassured smile and then put the theory to the test. "Good day to you, friend," he called out to his welcoming committee, raising his hand in greeting.

"And to you," the tall Gyptians answered, just as much as politeness required and no more.

"As you can probably guess, we are not from these parts," Illya said, knowing that at its best, his Gyptians language would carry the accent and idiosyncrasies of the place where he had learned it, several hundred miles to the east. "My friend and I have had the misfortune of crashing our car some miles back, and my friend is badly hurt. I would beg your assistance and hospitality, most humbly."

The man was silent for a moment, conferring with his dæmon. Then he turned back to Illya. "You speak like someone from Kiev, but you dress like a westerner. What business have you in these parts, you and your friend?"

Here, Illya had already decided that honesty would be the best policy. Thrush was unlikely to recruit from among these folk, though the truth might come with other complications too.

"My partner and I are agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," he began. "We were sent here to investigate a secret lab, somewhere in this area, where a private, outlaw organization may be studying a very dangerous technology. If what we suspect is true, our orders are to destroy it."

"UNCLE men, you say," the Gyptians replied after a skeptical moment. "And what proof have you?"

Illya was just reaching for the UNCLE ID card in his jacket pocket when another figure emerged from the ring of caravans. She was a girl, in her late teens, Illya would guess, with long, ringletted hair and wearing a brightly colored blouse and full ruffled skirts. Her dæmon, a long tailed, brown colored monkey, dashed out ahead of her, then back to play among her skirts.

"Uncle!" she shouted loudly, causing both men to direct their focus to her. "Whatever are you doing? He will think you are with Imperial Security."

"Have no fear," Illya said immediately. "If he were actually Imperial Security, he would be trying to kill me. That's how we got into this mess. My card."

The tall Gyptians took the ID card Illya proffered and examined it. "It all looks very nice and professional, Mr Kuryakin —just as anyone with access to a good print shop could make."

"They could," Illya agreed as the girl came to stand at her uncle's side and examine the card for herself. "But they would have a very difficult time finding the proper card-stock." He now gestured for the girl to hold the card up to the sun so that the watermark depicting the UNCLE logo could be seen.

"What do you say, Uncle?" the girl asked, clearly satisfied with this evidence. "Anyone that Imperial Security are trying to kill can't be all bad."

The man still didn't seem terribly happy about it. He remained, frowning as he deliberated for a moment, then Illya caught a movement from out of the corner of his eye and saw that the girl's monkey dæmon had picked something up from the grass —an acorn or some such— and now threw it so that it struck the man's hedgehog dæmon, startling him into a discomfitted hiss.

"Very well," the man conceded at last. "Go and bring your partner, and we will see what can be done. But mark, I make no promises. If your partner is beyond our help…"

"UNCLE does not take reprisals," Illya said firmly. "And we will be grateful for any effort."

"I'm sure you will be," said the girl, thrusting out her hand in introduction. "I'm Magda, and this here is Mikkadjee." She indicated her monkey dæmon who was just now making faces at the tall Gyptian's hedgehog. "My uncle there is Rudolfo with his Gemmeth. You mustn't mind them. They're usually a bit grumpy with newcomers, and They've had a lot on their minds lately."

"Illya Kuryakin," Illya said, shaking Magda's hand and then Rudolfo's. "And this is Pashapyrlitsei. My partner over there is Napoleon Solo." He indicated the tree beneath which Napoleon and Saphina sat, unmoving from where Illya had left them. He headed in that direction and Magda followed.

She gave a little gasp of dismay when she saw Napoleon's arm, purpling and terribly swollen where it rested across his lap. He seemed asleep or unconscious, but he gave a quiet moan, and Saphina, lying supine beside him, raised her head a little, when Illya crouched down beside him and softly spoke his name.

"If you can manage a few more steps we'll have you somewhere you can rest, yes?" he said. "We're among friends, for now."

The black panther dæmon stirred itself first, bumping her head against Illya's knee before turning to lick Napoleon's face encouragingly. At this Napoleon's eyes fluttered open and he drew a long breath, reaching up to take Illya's proffered hand with his good one. It still took every bit of Illya's strength and Magda's too, to get Napoleon onto his feet, and it took both of them to keep him upright as they made their way across the clearing towards the Gyptians encampment.

To his credit, Rudolfo stepped in to lend a shoulder once they had drawn near, and sent Magda to fetch her great aunt —someone Illya hoped would have some skill as a medic or healer. Soon enough there appeared an older woman with a staghorn beetle the size of one of Illya's hands for a dæmon, and she gestured them into her caravan.

"May I assume," Rudolfo said as he and Magda helped Napoleon up the caravan steps, "that whoever was thwarted in their goal of putting an end to you, will most likely try again?"

"Regrettably," Illya answered, "you are most likely correct. The car produced a rather distinctive cloud of black smoke when it crashed, and while we did our best to put some distance between ourselves and it, you may wish to take the precaution of not being in this area fairly soon."

"We'd have moved on in a day or so, regardless," Rudolfo said. "Magda! Go find Hanzi and tell him to bring the flocks in. I'd have us ready to depart within the hour."

Though his remarks were directed mainly at Magda, the whole camp heard and in seconds was abustle with preparations. Illya found himself managing Napoleon on his own, with the help of the woman Magda had called her great aunt.

"When was he bitten?" asked the old woman, who introduced herself as Dragana and her beetle as Tchifin, while she and Illya got Napoleon settled in a bed at the back of her crowded caravan.

"Earlier today," Illya said. Saphina did her best to curl up in an out of the way corner, though that was by no means easy. The small space was extraordinarily cluttered, with furniture, books, cooking gear, a woodstove, a well-worn loveseat, and even a sewing machine filling the space. Pasha lingered just inside the door, tail curled under his feet to prevent it being stepped on. The ceiling was festooned with bunches of dried flowers and herbs, which did assure Illya that he'd brought Napoleon to the right place.

"I know snakebite," said old Dragana, "but no snake that lives in these parts would cause such an injury as this." Her staghorn beetle dæmon was currently climbing among the hanging bunches of herbs and seemed to examine Napoleon from above.

"It was a dæmon," Illya answered uneasily. "It belonged to one of the men trying to kill us, and it bit him just as we were jumping free of the car, which was seconds away from plunging off a cliff. We thought that maybe it was _because_ it knew it was about to die that it did what it did."

"I have myself heard similar stories," Dragana said, directing her dæmon to hand her various of the herbs from where they hung around the caravan. "So I would say that it is certainly possible." She lit a small brazier next and threw a mix of leaves, wood chips and other items onto it. A sweet, pungent smoke soon issued forth and she lifted it up to waft the smoke over Napoleon and Saphina, who sneezed.

"All evil presences begone!" she intoned. "I cast you out, by the power of Life. I banish you by the power of Fire and Air." Illya held his tongue and tried not to cough when she passed the brazier over him.

"This dæmon," Magda asked after she had set the brazier down. "Did he belong to a violent man? A man capable of killing?"

"Not only was he capable of doing so," Illya answered. "He was doing his utmost to kill the both of us, as he had almost certainly been ordered to do."

"If the man has the will and means to kill, then the dæmon may as well," said Magda, now collecting a different set of materials from her dæmon. Some of these she put in a small bowl while others were crushed in a mortar and pestle. All of the ingredients were finally mixed together with a little bit of what looked like honey, then Magda spread this mixture on a piece of cloth which she gently wrapped around Napoleon's swollen hand.

"This may draw away some of the fever and reduce the swelling," Magda said. "Much will depend on your partner, however."

"I understand," Illya said, wishing there was more that could be done. He was well aware that it was already too late for any sort of antivenom, if such even existed, and that not even the most modern hospital would likely be able to do much more for him. Dragana pulled a embroidered stool over so that Illya could sit at Napoleon's side, then excused herself to secure the interior of the caravan for moving.

Saphina eventually crawled up to stretch herself out next to Napoleon's legs on the narrow cot, her head resting on his belly. His partner's breaths were shallow and rapid, and his skin pale and beaded with sweat. Illya seethed inwardly, with frustration and helplessness as he sat. After a moment he felt a consoling lick on the back of his hand and Pasha's weight settled itself on his feet. Illya reached down to scratch him behind the ears.

"How long do you think it will be," he asked, "before we know…"

"Whether or not your friend will survive?" Dragana finished for him. "I would say six to eight hours. If he is still alive then, still fighting, then probably he will live."

She returned to the bedside with a pitcher and a glass of water, and a moist cloth. "There are, in general, two types of snake venom, you understand," she continued, gently wiping away the sweat on Napoleon's forehead. "Some cause paralysis, so that the victim dies when the lungs cannot breath, and the heart stops. If the snake that bit your partner had that kind of venom, he would be dead already."

Illya nodded his understanding. "And the other type?"

"Kills with pain," Dragana replied. "It inflicts first the bitten limb, then the whole body with such terrible pain, that many victims succumb to it alone. Those who can endure much, they can survive, but there is a secret to such endurance."

"And this secret is?" Illya asked, thinking that he sounded like a gullible fool, and yet desperate enough for any slim reed of hope.

"He who can endure such an ordeal, always has someone or something he is enduring _for_ ," explained the old woman. "Your partner, to whom or what is he most dedicated?"

"To UNCLE," Illya answered without thinking. "To the principles UNCLE stands for, rule of law, equal justice for all…" Dragana dismissed this with a gesture.

"These are fine sentiments, but seldom enough to support a man through such torments," she said. "What of his family? Has he a wife? mother? brothers or sisters?" Illya shook his head.

"He has no one, and neither do I," Illya explained. "It is the usual situation for UNCLE agents." Dragana tutted disapprovingly.

"Such men can be strong, but it is a fragile strength," she said. "Let us hope your partner's strength does not shatter under the weight of this ordeal."

Illya nodded, thinking that he and Napoleon had both endured much, but perhaps nothing so insidious as this —simple pain, growing and burning from within, asking for no passcodes, secret plans or even allegiance. Illya sighed and stroked his fingers absently though Pasha's fur. Outside he could hear the wagon's front steps being stowed away and horses being hitched up, and for a moment or two the old woman was outside, chatting with the driver. Then she was back inside, closing the front door and they were on the move, the whole space rocking from side to side as they rolled over the uneven ground at the side of the road. Napoleon moaned at being jostled and Illya took up the cloth to wipe his brow again.

"I told Luka —he's driving— to take care, as much as he can, to keep the ride smooth," Dragana said. "There will have to be some rough travel getting onto the road, however."

"Of course," Illya said absently, watching his partner's face contort in pain. Could Napoleon endure six to eight hours of this? The caravan settled onto the road with a quartet of bumps and Napoleon gave a pained cry at the last. Illya took up his good hand, the nearer one, thankfully, and squeezed it gently, willing all the strength and endurance he possessed into his partner.

On the road, the caravan's rocking slowed to a gentle sway, not unlike a ship at sea. Illya had hoped it would be calming, but after a while Illya began to notice his partner's eyes moving rapidly beneath the half closed lids.

"Too hot…" Napoleon murmured. "Can't bear it any longer… can't…"

Illya made soothing noises, wiping Napoleon's face and neck with the cloth.

"No... no… can't…" Napoleon continued muttering. "Can't go in the water… mustn't… sharks… already got Jeffries and Tarrant… waiting… out there… waiting…"

"Sharks?" inquired Dragana, coming with a fresh cloth.

"He was a pilot in the Asian wars," Illya said. "I believe his plane crashed at sea once."

In fact, Illya knew quite a few details about this misadventure of Napoleon's, but only because he'd bribed one of the girls in research to find copies of the citations for the medals he'd seen in Napoleon's desk drawer but which he'd never spoken of. It had been a horrific business and if that's where Napoleon was right now, then Illya must do what he could to bring him back.

"Shh… Napoleon, you're safe… you're here with me, far away from any ocean," Illya reached up to brush a sweat-damp lock of hair out of his partner's eyes. "I've got you… I'll keep you safe." Behind him, Illya heard old Dragana give an amused snort. The glare Illya focused on her had reduced other men to quivering heaps.

"Men!" was all she would say at first, then finally. "It's _you_ , you fool. You are the one he'd endure all for. You are the one he will fight for, and possibly even live for, and yet you are afraid to speak of it."

Illya turned a frosty shoulder on the old woman, taking Napoleon's good hand up in both of his own. Of course, old old woman could well have the right of it, and he would cling to that hope for now. He knew he would fight through fire and flood for his partner, and likely the reciprocal was true. As for not speaking of it, even a man as rational as Illya had to admit, spies are a superstitious lot.

According to superstition, you did not speak much of the things you hold most precious, lest too much attention be drawn to them. There was nothing more precious to Illya than his partner's life, and it was precious in ways that even Napoleon would likely never know. Best then that it never come to anyone's attention, and the less said about his feelings in this regard the better. Pasha crept up into Illya's lap as he held Napoleon's hand and stretched his nose out to daintily lick Saphina's. The big panther blinked and returned the gesture and the sight warmed Illya's heart and kindled his hopes.

The wagons continued down the road into the evening, and Dragana came around and lit various oil lanterns in the caravan as the light faded. Later she came with a cup of broth, encouraging Illya to give what he could to Napoleon, but insisting that he should feed himself too. Later still there was strong, spiced, milky tea and a blanket over his shoulders and somewhere along the way Illya hoped he remembered to express his gratitude, but he was not sure. Eventually Dragna took herself to bed on the loveseat near the front of the caravan, extinguishing all the lamps save the one by the bed. Illya was no stranger to all night vigils —neither of them was.

In those darkest, pre-dawn hours, sometimes referred to as the 'hour of the wolf', Illya gave way to the thing eating at his heart, and leaned forward to press his lips against his partner's overwarm forehead.

"Fight for me, my Napoleon," he whispered. "Live. I know you are strong enough; I know you can do it, for me." Illya knew it was not trick of the lamplight that he saw his partner's lips shape his name, nor wishful thinking that he felt Napoleon's good hand squeeze his in return. He was still fighting. He would live.


	3. Act 2: "If enforcing law and order is your true mission…"

Waking came slowly to Napoleon late the next morning, also painfully and with some momentary disorientation. An exploratory attempt to move the fingers of his left hand instantly produced a searing, gasp-inducing agony, but Illya was at his side in a flash, calming him, helping him ride out the spike of pain, and asking him if he wanted water, which he did.

"How much do you remember, from yesterday?" Illya asked when Napoleon handed him back the empty glass.

"Well, jumping out of a moving car, for one," Napoleon said, letting Illya help him carefully sit upright. Saphina was less than helpful in this effort, as she kept trying to tuck her head under Napoleon's chin but eventually she settled for draping herself over his legs. "And being bitten by an assassin's viper dæmon. And then I remember most of our walk to the meadow where we met up with a band of Gyptians… who you evidently convinced to help us. But I don't really remember anything after you let me sit down by that tree. I think I may have dreamed about being at on a boat though…"

"When the wagon started down the road," Illya explained. "You apparently found it reminiscent of your time at sea."

"Not anything I ever really wanted to reminisce on," Napoleon said, feeling the gentle rocking of the wagon even now. "Though given the absence of sharks, I suppose I might get used to it."

"Is he going on about sharks again?" An older woman with an almost disturbingly large beetle dæmon on her shoulder approached the back of the caravan now, speaking English, much to Illya and Napoleon's surprise.

"No need to look so shocked," she replied to their looks. "I've been travelling across the whole of Europe, all my life. I speak French, German, English, Russian, Spanish, even a little Portuguese."

Illya gave a chagrinned smile and introduced them. "Napoleon, this is our hostess, and the one whose bed you are sleeping in, Dragana and her dæmon, Tchifin. Dragana, this is my partner, Napoleon Solo and his Saphina."

The old woman curtsied briefly, then said, "I'm also the one who created the poultice on your hand that must be changed now. If you would be so kind as to lend your assistance, Illya?"

Saphina promptly got herself out of the way, which told Napoleon that he could trust the old healer. What followed was not terribly pleasant, but Dragana's touch was gentle, as was Illya's (as always) and when they were done Dragana pronounced that the swelling really had gone down and that Napoleon should have something to eat. He hardly dared refuse her, and besides, he was beginning to feel just a bit peckish.

Saphina leapt back up onto the narrow bed once Dragana had stepped away, but leaned out to give Illya a surreptitious bump on the shoulder as she did so. It was an indication of the deep intimacy between them which neither ever spoke of. Were anyone else to so much as lay a finger on Saphina, Napoleon would feel it as a profound and disturbing violation, but Illya's touch was familiar and possibly even something like comforting.

Dragana bought them both some soup and good brown bread with butter, and when he had finished Napoleon slept some more. He woke again some hours later when he felt the caravan come to a stop, and found he felt almost human again. With a little help from Saphina, Napoleon was able to lever himself out of bed and head for the door with the intention of answering a call of nature. Dragana met him halfway, cautioning him not to wake Illya who was currently sound asleep in the loveseat.

Once outside (and nature's call attended to), Napoleon and Saphina saw that the caravans had all pulled into a circle once again, and that a fire was being kindled in the center. The sun was just setting and preparations were being made for dinner. Napoleon offered to help, but was politely refused. Instead he was given a place by the fire and a cup of hot tea, which was just what he wanted. As he sat sipping his tea a young woman with a monkey dæmon came to sit beside him.

"You really from UNCLE?" she asked without preamble.

Napoleon tried not to look taken aback. He'd never spent much time among Gyptians, and maybe this was considered a normal way of greeting strangers. "Is that what Illya told you?" he asked.

"He showed me his ID card," she said. "Do you have an ID card too?" 

"Naturally," Napoleon answered, amused. Sitting at his feet, Saphina rolled her eyes.

"Can I see it?" she asked. Indulgently, Napoleon was already reaching into his vest pocket, but no sooner did he have it out than the monkey snatched it out from between his fingers. In a flash, Saphina was on her feet, a low menacing growl in her throat, but Napoleon stilled her with a hand on her shoulder.

"They're young," he murmured, even as the girl scolded her daemon.

"Mikka, you naughty thing!" she cried, grabbing the card away from the monkey. "I'm sorry, Mr… Solo," she read off the card. "It's usually just family here in the spring and summer journeys, and we're used to getting away with a lot. I'm Magda, by the way. Dragana's my great aunt. Sorry about forgetting our manners."

"Think nothing of it," Napoleon twinkled. "And you may as well call me Napoleon, as you're on a first name basis with my partner. Oh, and this is Saphina." The black panther greeted the girl with an inscrutable blink.

"But Illya's practically family," Magda nattered on, "seeing as he speaks the lingo and all… Oh I'm messing up my manners again, aren't I?"

"I would say you are," a familiar voice came from behind them, "but since my partner obviously finds you so charming, I expect he won't mind." 

Magda whirled around to see Illya standing at her shoulder just as Pasha came over to plunk himself down next to where Saphina lay on the grass. Poor Magda blushed all over, declared that she was urgently needed to help with dinner and vanished in a flurry of skirts and ebony curls. Illya seated himself on the grass next to Napoleon with a smirk.

"You're a cruel man, Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said with a smirk of his own.

"She had it coming," Illya said, and Napoleon supposed that he might be right.

Dinner, which was served a short time later, was a hearty mutton stew with fresh brown bread and soft goat cheese to spread on it. A bottle or two of honey-wine made the rounds during the meal, and afterwards, naturally, there was music and a bit of dancing. The several dozen Gyptians who neither played nor danced sat in the circle with Napoleon and Illya and clapped their hands in time to the music, occasionally passing more honey-wine to the dancers and musicians.

"I'm pleased to see you have recovered so well," said a tall man with a hedgehog dæmon on his shoulder, coming to sit next to Napoleon.

"I have, thanks to your kindness and hospitality," answered Napoleon, not sure who the man was but guessing that an indication of gratitude would be well received.

"Napoleon, this is Rudolfo," Illya introduced. "He is the leader of this band and is, in fact, the one you must thank for helping us and letting us stay."

"Then let me reiterate," Napoleon said graciously, "and express my profound gratitude. I am in your dept, sir, as is UNCLE."

The man nodded. "Your partner promised that UNCLE does not take reprisals," he said. "Does it pay its debts?"

"It most certainly does," said Napoleon. "It does not forget its friends, either, even once debts have been paid."

"Fine words," said Rudolfo, and his hedgehog dæmon nodded in concurrence. "But it is your actions that will serve as proof."

"And what actions would you have us take?" Illya asked, getting straight to the point as always.

"Only to fulfill the mission of your UNCLE organization," Rudolfo said forcefully. "If enforcing law and order is your true mission, then it is sorely needed here, where our people have been mysteriously disappearing for over half a year now, with no authority lifting a finger to find them!"

Illya, Napoleon, Pasha and Saphina all exchanged serious glances at this declaration.

"If this truly is the case, then you're right, UNCLE ought to be involved," Napoleon said. "I must caution you that we are here on another mission, which we are duty bound to complete first, but I can promise you that we will not return to New York until we have at least made some determination about your situation."

"And what is the mission that actually brought you here?" asked another voice from across the circle. After a moment Napoleon recognized the old healer woman, Dragana. Again the two UNCLE agents and their dæmons looked at each other and wordlessly came to a decision.

"When I was a young man, in the Imperial Russian Navy," Illya began after a pause. "I… was involved in the trial of a new invention created by some of the Czar's top scientists. What it was meant to do I will not say here, and in any event it was an abject failure. Most of those in the trial died… or worse. I was one of the very few lucky ones."

Someone passed the bottle of honey-wine over to Illya, who took a long pull and then returned the bottle with thanks. "At the time I was told that the scientists involved had been punished, and the invention and its plans destroyed," Illya continued. "Recently, however, we at UNCLE have received information that this device, or one suspiciously similar to it, is being used again, by an organization known as Thrush. Their goals, as always, are to amass power of any type, at any expense. The experiments with this device alone are abominable, and should they succeed in making it work… the horrors that could result are unimaginable."

"And this Thrush organization," someone asked from across the fire. "They are based here, in the Carpathians?"

"Thrush is an international organization," Napoleon answered now. "They have bases —satraps— located all over the world, but our intelligence has located the satrap where these experiments are taking place as being here in the Carpathians, near the Polish, Slovakian and Ukrainian borders. We also have reason to believe that they are bribing local officials so that they can continue to work undiscovered and undisturbed."

There was some murmuring amongst those listening in reaction to this, and a general consensus that bribery was a time honored way of life for most of the officials, in all three nations hereabouts.

"But you say that experiments are being done?" asked an older man with a terrier dæmon sitting near Dragana. "Surely they must have people for these experiments, and surely they are not volunteering themselves?"

"We are not sure," Illya answered, "how many experiments there have been, nor how the 'subjects' are being collected. It is not people who are being experimented on, however… but their dæmons."

There was, understandably, a collective gasp from those listening in response to this announcement, and one outraged woman hissed, "For shame, sir! There are children present!"

"We most humbly beg your pardons," Napoleon said quickly. "You must understand, such unpleasantness is too often a usual part of our business."

"Be that as it may," said the man who'd asked about the subjects of Thrush's experiments. "I have heard things… things not to be spoken of in present company, which may connect your mission and our own troubles."

Napoleon felt Saphina nudge her head against his knee. "You know, he may be on to something," she murmured. "We have secret experiments taking place in some nearby location with unknown subjects, and they have missing people. Surely there must be a connection."

"We would indeed like very much to hear what you have heard," Illya said. "Later, when we may speak privately." 

The man agreed, and so it was that they all met in Dragana's caravan, once the festivities had drawn to a close. The old healer made them all tea, then insisted that they not speak at all until she had placed a line of salt over every threshold and window sill, and fumed each of them in clouds of burning sage.

"I have heard the tales Petya speaks of," she said, "and if you must know them, you must, but to speak of such evil cannot but invite evil. Measures must be taken to protect us all."

Petya nodded approvingly, bowing his head as Dragana bathed him in smoke and lifting his terrier dæmon up to receive her own censing. Napoleon and Illya followed suit, as did their dæmons. Once she'd finished with the incense, Dragana poured them all cups of tea laced with slivovitz, which Napoleon appreciated very much.

"My nephew is one of those who have disappeared," Petya began after he'd taken his first sip of fortified tea. "It was almost a year ago, and my sister —the boy's mother— is beside herself still, so I took it upon myself to find out what I could. I've spoken to countless families. All the missing are young adults, many within a year of their dæmons settling into a fixed form. None have found their missing loved ones, but some few stories I was told of lost people found, unable to tell anything of who they were or where they were from."

"Where are they now, these foundlings?" Illya asked, hands clenched tight around his teacup.

"None have survived," Petya said, taking several deep swallows of tea. "Most say it was a mercy, for what had been done to their dæmons…"

"And what had been done?" Illya asked, voice dry with a terrible tension. Dragana took Petya's cup and refilled it halfway with slivovitz alone.

"I was told that it was hard even to look at them," Petya said, his own voice less than steady. At his feet, his terrier dæmon whined and licked his ankle. "To look too long was to chip away at one's own sanity, they said. The dæmons were a horrible fusion, an unspeakable blend of countless creatures in different parts. One might appear to have the body of a cat, the left leg of a goat, the head and right leg of a tortoise and the hindquarters of a hare, or the tale of a tale of a dog, the head of a monkey, and the legless body of a snake. The humans these abominations belonged to were often all but catatonic, or hysterical. They did not eat or sleep, and soon succombed to exhaustion, heart failure, loss of the will to live."

Petya paused here to swallow back the full measure of liquor in his teacup, but Napoleon had suddenly become aware of Illya, setting his own cup down with shaking hands, and gathering Pasha up in his arms, to hold him close. 

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, laying a careful hand on his partner's shoulder.

"It is only memories now," Illya said. "I will be fine, and there is still more to tell, yes?"

"A little," said Petya, harsh voiced from the liquor. "One young woman was found whose dæmon was not so afflicted, I was told, but was stricken in a different way. Her dæmon could not stop changing, from second to second, and she could do naught but beg him to stop. The people who found her, they managed to get her to take a little nourishment, but she couldn't sleep at all, and after only a few nights, she slipped away from the caravan, filled her pockets with stones and cast herself onto the river. Those are all the tales I have to tell you."

Beside him, Napoleon heard Illya draw in a long breath, saw him bury his face in the soft fur at Pasha's neck.

"You know these stories already, do you not my child?" asked old Dragana.

"Yes," Illya said, lifting his head. "I've seen these things with my own eyes, I am more than sorry to have to say."

"But you survived," said Napoleon, picking up Illya's cup and handing it over to Dragana to be filled with more liquor.

"I did, and so far as I know there may have been one or two others who did as well," Illya said, gratefully accepting his filled cup back from Dragana. "I never met them, and I was never able to learn how many 'experiments' were done altogether, so the percentage rates for survival are completely unknown. Were you able to get any idea, Petya, of how many people are missing in total?"

"By general reckoning only, I would say between one and two hundred," Petya said. "And the first instance of someone disappearing I could find was early last year, soon after the Longest Night."

"That jibes with our intelligence," Napoleon commented. "Not that there was much doubt before, but I'd say we're already at work on your case. Were you able to get a sense of where the disappearances, and the appearances too, for that matter, mainly took place?"

"I've made a map," Petya said proudly. "The locations are scattered, of course, but they are all centered around one area. I can show you…" 

"In the morning," Dragana said wisely. "This one is still recovering, and your cousin and his wife are likely sound asleep in your caravan, Petya, as you ought to be as well."

Dragana now threw open all the doors and windows, declaiming some spell in her own tongue for banishing the evil spirits they might have attracted, then sent Petya on his way. She burned another handful off sweet herbs on the wood stove as Illya and Napoleon closed all the windows again.

"What will you do now, UNCLE men?" Dragana asked them as they prepared to settle themselves together in the bed at the back of the caravan. They'd slept together in smaller beds before during missions, and long gotten past any awkwardness on that account.

"I imagine we'll do a bit of scouting," Napoleon began, then winced slightly as Illya jabbed his shoulder. "Or rather, Illya will do some scouting while I stay here and recover, and hopefully he'll find out more about the exact location of the Thrush base."

"And then?" asked Dragana from across the caravan where she prepared to sleep on the loveseat again.

"Then," said Illya, tapping his communicator pen on Pasha's nose. "Then, we call for our backup."


	4. Act 3: "Looks like we'll have company…"

Petya's cousin was Hanzi, the young man who had the supervision of the band's flocks of sheep and goats this year. He and Petya served as Illya's guides in his first foray out to the area where they thought they might find the Thrush satrap, but for the next few trips it was Hanzi alone, while Petya and Hanzi's wife, Hanka, looked after the livestock. Petya was known as the band's best scout, and knew the land hereabouts better than anyone. He'd imparted a great deal of that knowledge to his younger cousin, however, and Illya found him an able, bright and knowledgeable guide.

Hanzi's hare dæmon seemed shy of Illya's fox at first, just as Hanzi remained careful and courteous with Illya until their second trip out. Illya took pains to let the young man see that Illya respected his knowledge and abilities and after some time alone with Illya Hanzi finally began to relax around him. At twenty one or twenty two years, the young Gyptians was newly married, still a little self-conscious of the relatively new mustache he was encouraging on his upper lip and a keen observer of the environment around him.

He knew before Illya that they were coming close to the Thrush satrap, sensing the scarcity of bird and animal life. Illya caught it once Hanzi brought it to his attention, but his guide had noticed it first. Spotting a likely opening in the forest some distance below them, Illya sent Pasha ahead to scout the area unseen. Hanzi watched Illya's dæmon disappear from view with wide, astonished eyes.

"How can you bear to let him get so far away?" he asked, clutching his own dæmon close.

"It is part of the standard training for all Imperial State Security agents," Illya answered him. "It is not pleasant, to be sure, but once the training is done we have an edge that most in our business do not."

"You were in the ISS before you were an UNCLE agent?" Hanzi inquired. Illya replied with a nod. "Does UNCLE also require its agents to undergo such training?"

"No," Illya said. "They consider it cruel and inhumane, and I can honestly see their point. A certain percentage of ISS trainees are not able to endure this training, and some are damaged for life. UNCLE does train its agents' dæmons, if they are large enough, to be able to fight. Napoleon's Saphina has undergone such training, and she is a formidable opponent."

"I'll bet," Hanzi said with a grin, white teeth contrasting against olive skin and dark hair. Pasha reappeared about then, trotting up between the trees, ears up and tongue lolling contentedly. 

"It's right there," Pasha said, indicating the direction he'd come from with his head. "There's a single building, like a garage or a barn, with a fence all around it and guards, but I'm pretty sure it's just an entrance to a larger underground complex. I spotted a few vent shafts in the forest and sniffed around them. Both smelled of people, but one smelled terribly of fear."

"That sounds like what we're looking for," Illya said grimly.

"How far is it from here?" Hanzi asked, still astonished at how far from Illya Pasha had wandered.

"Not quite a mile," Pasha said, pushing against Illya's hand for skritchies.

"He could go about twice as far before it would become uncomfortable," Illya explained, indulging his dæmon. "Do you know of any place near here where Napoleon and I could make a small base camp?"

Hanzi thought about it as they headed back, and by the time they arrived back at the caravan camp he'd convinced Illya that he and Napoleon should let a small group —two or three caravans— travel with them.

"The weather can turn on a dime here in the mountains," Magda had backed up his argument once they'd returned, "and you two aren't exactly equipped for camping out. On the other hand, it's completely normal for small groups of Gyptians to split off from their bands and spend a few weeks in some of the smaller valleys to graze their flocks in the summer."

"It would be good cover," Napoleon admitted, "but isn't this exactly how many of your people have gone missing over the last year?"

"Yeah, but now you'd be here to come rescue anyone who got disappeared," Magda insisted.

"You know we don't like using innocents as bait," Saphina muttered to Napoleon and Illya could see that Pasha agreed.

"They wouldn't be bait… necessarily," Napoleon pointed out. "Just cover."

"Cover that could end up being bait just the same," Illya said with a frown. "But neither one of us is going to come up with any better plan any time soon."

"They must be volunteers, and know what they are risking," Pasha said, but Illya knew that wouldn't be any problem at all.

In the end three wagons went with them: Magda's, Petya's with Hanzi and Hanka, and Dragana's, which came as a surprise.

"They're not interested in old folk, like me," she said reasonably. "At least, not so far, and if anyone is hurt, I could perhaps be of help."

They left the main band early the next morning and found their camping spot after only a half day's travel. All three wagons slipped into a close grove of beech trees so that they were nearly invisible, and they gathered only the driest of wood for their cook fires so that the smoke wouldn't give them away. As the night was cloudless, Petya went with Illya and Napoleon to an open hilltop nearby with a compass and a sextant to look at the stars and determine their exact location by longitude and latitude. Petya was only slightly affronted when Illya checked his math.

Still, he understood the need for exactitude. Napoleon would need it when he called in to headquarters to report their circumstances and position.

"Now that we know there's an extensive underground complex, and the possibility of hostages," Napoleon reported to Waverly, "we'd like to call for support, if possible."

"He says that Dancer and Slate are standing by," he then relayed to Illya as he capped his communicator. "A plane will fly over once, tomorrow at noon, and we should send a flash signal. When they see the signal they'll fly over again and drop off Mark and April."

"And by 'drop off'… ?" Petya asked a little incredulously.

"We mean by parachute," Illya said. "It will be a low altitude drop, and both agents Slate and Dancer are excellent target jumpers."

 

All that being true, there was no accounting for the weather, which presented them with variable and gusty winds the next morning. If was a fine day otherwise, with clear skies and comfortably warm temperatures. The six of them rose early, breakfasting as usual, on strong, milky tea, brown bread with butter and fresh forest berries —something Napoleon thought he could well get used to. After breakfast, Illya arranged to borrow the hand mirror they would need from Dragana and, as promised, the UNCLE chartered plane flew over their location at noon precisely. It flew obligingly low and slow, so that Napoleon could easily flash a beam of reflected sunlight across the nose of the plane.

"Did they just waggle their wings, Napoleon?" Saphina asked as the plane flew off.

"I believe they did," Napoleon replied with satisfaction. "Looks like we'll have company in a minute or two." As arranged, he and Illya now laid a brightly colorful blanket in the sloping meadow near where the three caravans were ensconced. To the innocent eye it would look like preparations for a picnic, but Mark and April would recognize it as their target. They'd no sooner laid the blanket out when they heard the drone of the plane returning.

None of the Gyptians had ever seen a parachute jump before, and they all gathered at the edge of the clearing to watch, their eyes following the returning plane as it passed above them. Petya exclaimed something in the Gyptians language as Napoleon saw two dark shapes bail out of the plane. Having discharged its cargo, the plane sped up and quickly climbed away. A few seconds later, a pair of square shaped parachutes bloomed above the two falling figures.

Though they were still too far away to be seen clearly, Napoleon knew that Mark and April would be tugging on various lines on their 'chutes, spilling air strategically so that they would land in the area Napoleon and Illya had marked for them. For a minute or so the two 'chutes spiraled down in a neat tandem but then, without warning, a strong gust of wind blew over the hillside. The trees above them bent and shook, and a moment later they saw it strike the two parachutists. It swung them about like bells, and one managed to steer himself back on course, drastically spilling the air from his ‘chute. The other, however, was picked up by a wind current and carried several hundred yards to the east, well away from the target area.

“That’s a bit of bad luck,” Illya muttered. “Who is it? Can you see?”

“I think that’s April’s osprey, Kyree,” Napoleon heard Pasha say. “There, circling around the one who got pushed off course.”

“I believe you’re right,” Illya answered. “Is there anywhere safe for her to come down over there?”

“There’s a high meadow up that way,” Hanzi suggested. “I used to take the sheep there every summer.”

“I know the one you mean,” Magda said immediately. “Should one of us go and try to find her?”

“One of us, no,” Napoleon said. “But two of us, yes. Illya, have you any preference?”

Illya agreed to stay and meet Mark when he came down, so it was Napoleon and Magda who made their way up what was little more than a narrow, winding goat track, climbing a ridgeline which would lead to the meadow where they hoped April would land. As they climbed, Napoleon marveled at the lung capacity of the young Gyptians  
woman leading the way, which seemed to be enough to keep up a barrage of questions and chatter, all while negotiating the steep terrain.

"An osprey's a kind of eagle, isn't it? I can't believe how far away from her he's flying," she remarked, watching April's dæmon winging overhead, probably scouting the territory as they dropped. "Did she go through the same sort of training as Illya? Hanzi says that all ISS agents have to go through separation training, but that UNCLE agents don't. I can't imagine being separated so far from my Mikka. Even the idea gives me the shivers. I just can't imagine how anyone can stand it."

She gathered her dæmon in her arms as she continued to watch the skies. They had paused on a level spot, where Napoleon could follow April's trajectory and see whether or not she was coming in to the same place they were heading toward. As that seemed to be the case, he lingered for a moment or two longer to catch his breath and answer some of Magda's questions.

"Yes, an osprey is a bird of prey, like a small eagle," he said. "When April's family saw that her dæmon was likely going to settle as a bird, they sent her to live with a colony of witches in upstate New York. She lived with them for three of four years when she was a little girl, and they have their own methods for training a person and their dæmon to tolerate long distance separation. We at UNCLE would certainly like to know how they do it, but all witches and those who have had this training are sworn to secrecy."

"Witches? Wow!" Magda said, decidedly impressed. "Does she know any other witchcraft or magic?"

"Not that I've seen, but I don't work with her that often," Napoleon said, starting back up the path. April had just disappeared behind the ridge and Saphina was clearly eager to be on her way. "Perhaps you can ask her yourself."

Magda's eyes widened almost comically at the notion, but Napoleon kept his amusement to himself. He let her move into the lead again, expertly differentiating between the path they wanted and countless indistinguishable game trails. Then suddenly, they topped a rise and found themselves in a wildflower strewn, high mountain meadow. In the middle of this open space stood April Dancer, still in the process of gathering up her parachute.

A piercing screech from immediately above told Napoleon that his presence had been announced, and a second later a sleek, grey and white feathered form was settling on April's shoulder and the newly arrived UNCLE agent was waving her hand in greeting.

"Napoleon!" she cried. "I'm glad you found us, but I'm afraid we may have some troubling news."

"How's that?" Napoleon asked, taking a moment to introduce Magda.

"Kyree did some scouting as we came down," April explained, stuffing her 'chute into a carry bag. "He saw a group of horsemen, a dozen or more, headed in your direction. He said that they seemed to be uniformed, and carrying weapons, plus other equipment."

"That _is_ troubling," Napoleon agreed, taking the carry bag and directing April down the path they'd just come up. "What direction were they coming from?"

"Kyree says from the East, and his sense of direction…"

"Is nearly infallible," Napoleon finished for her. "Dammit, that's the direction of the Thrush base. We've got to move."

"Kyree," April spoke to her dæmon. "Find Mark; tell him they've got company coming." The osprey dæmon flung himself off her shoulder, winging off in the direction of their own base camp.

"They'll never be able to get the wagons hitched up in time," Magda said, as impatient as the rest of them to get back to camp, but wise enough in the ways of the mountains not to go tearing pell-mell down the narrow, winding track. Her monkey dæmon dashed ahead then back to tug at her skirts until Magda picked him up and sat him on her shoulder. "We're going as fast as we can, Mikka," Napoleon heard her say. "We won't do anybody any good by breaking our necks on the way down."

Naturally, climbing down was slower going than up, and made to seem slower still by the urgency of the situation. They were almost halfway down when the sound of gunfire echoed up from the hollow where the camp was. Napoleon bit back a swear and reminded himself of the very same thing that Magda had. The Gyptians woman cried out in dismay several moments later as another sound —a high piercing scream— was heard from below.

"Hanka!" she cried. "No, they mustn't have Hanka! She's got a baby… I mean she will have, sometime this winter probably…"

"Hanka's pregnant?" Napoleon cried, coming to an abrupt stop. "For God's sake, why didn't she tell me? I never would have asked her to come with us…"

"It was sort of a secret,," Magda said. "And you were going to ask Hanzi to come anyhow and she'd never agree to stay behind."

Napoleon let slip the sort of oath he usually didn't say around impressionable young ladies. "Come on," he said, drawing his own UNCLE special and seeing April do the same. "Let's keep going."

An eternal three minutes later, they burst into the clearing beside their camp. Mark's parachute was still there, pushed into the bushes at the edge of the meadow by the wind, but of Mark there was no sign. Kyree was circling overhead, and now came in to land on April's shoulder.

"He says that Mark was already unconscious when he arrived, probably from something like a sleep dart," April said after a moment's conference. "Illya went down last and then the uniformed men loaded everyone onto the Gyptians's horses and headed off about a minute ago."

"Everyone?" Magda cried, then shouted, heedless of any danger, "Petya! Dragana!"

"Mark, Illya and two young people," April answered. "Are they 'Petya and Dragana'?" Napoleon was shaking his head even as a faint cry came from behind the caravans.

"Magda?" That was Dragana's voice. "Over here, child! Petya's been hurt!"

Magda was off like a shot, with Napoleon, Saphina and April following on her heels. When they came around the back of the caravans they found Dragana sitting on the grass with Petya's head in her lap, holding a bandage to his bleeding forehead. 

"I've had worse," Petya growled, alert and angry for all he was injured, when Napoleon asked how he was.

"He tried to stop them taking Hanzi and Hanka," Dragana explained as Magda fussed over them both. "I told him not to be a fool, but…" she shrugged.

"Yeah, that's one piece of advice men just can't seem to follow," April said, shaking her head. "So now what's the plan?"

"Well, I'd have liked for these folks to get out of here, but since Thrush saw fit to steal their horses too, I guess that's off the table," Napoleon said. "You two will have to sit tight, but I promise you, we will be back, and we will have your people and your horses. I don't make these sorts of promises often, and I don't make them lightly. When you agreed to help UNCLE, you became our responsibility, and we take that responsibility seriously."

"What he said," April reiterated, resolute.

"You're going after them right away?" Magda asked. "Do you want some food or anything?"

"I think we'd best travel light," April said. "But thank you. Napoleon, you know the way?"

"Even if I didn't, we'd be following a trail left by over a dozen horses," Napoleon replied. "And I agree, we need to travel light and fast to keep up."

He and April bade farewell to the Gyptians then, letting them know that the parachutes were theirs to do with as they pleased, then they were off, following the wide track of crushed greenery left by the Thrush horsemen.

Napoleon and April walked for some time without saying anything, focusing instead on making their way as quickly as possible. Saphina ranged ahead, choosing the best course, and Kyree circled above, returning to April's shoulder from time to time to report what he'd seen. The Thrush horsemen they were following were already well ahead and making good progress.

They proceeded to put even more distance between themselves and their UNCLE pursuers when they came to a shallow but rapid river, which the horses could walk through without difficulty. Neither Napoleon nor April were equipped for wading, however, and the current was swift enough to knock them off their feet should they try, in any case.

"There's a road, a mile or so downstream," April reported what Kyree had seen from above, "which parallels the river, but we're going to have to navigate the riverbank for the next bit."

Napoleon nodded, sending Saphina ahead once more to find the best path around and between the trees of the thickly forested riverbanks. He bristled at how this was slowing them down, but saw clearly that they had no other choice. The sun was going down when they finally reached the road, and by then, according to Kyree, the Thrush horsemen and their captives had disappeared into the base.

Now that they were out of the woods, it was relatively easy to continue after the sun set, and when the moon rose some hours later, the road, narrow and unpaved as it was, was clearly visible. Saphina continued to scout ahead for guards or traps, and dropped back from time to time to see that they weren't being followed. In this remote, mountainous land Thrush seemed to feel no necessity to guard the general area, only the base itself. This, Napoleon and April found to their dismay, they had not overlooked in the least.

Remembering his scouting trips with Hanzi, Napoleon led them to the vantage point he and the Gyptians had found earlier, but now, even in the dark, Napoleon could see that the guards at the various entrances had been doubled. Saphina shredded the bark of a nearby tree with her claws in frustration. Napoleon dropped to hunker behind a rock and drummed his fingers on his knees.

"We had their guard changing schedule all worked out," he murmured to April who was watching the gate with night vision binoculars. "But they've probably changed that as well."

"Probably," said April with tireless patience, "but if we keep watching we can work it out again."

"I guess we'll have to," Napoleon said. "At least we'll be able to see if they've changed it pretty soon. According to my notes, they change at nine and then at midnight. It's about five minutes to nine now."

April agreed, and so they settled in for the night. Kyree didn't see so well in the dark, so he roosted in a tree just above them. Saphina, whose night vision was excellent, patrolled the immediate area, but no Thrush guards or their daemons (most of whom seemed to be canine in nature, as was often the case with Thrush footsoldiers) strayed far from their posts to find them. Instead, they made regular circuits of the fence and changed off at the gates every three hours. Napoleon thought that once daylight returned they might find a more remote part of the perimeter where they could enter unseen, but nothing he and April saw from this position during the whole night gave them any idea for a way to break in sooner.

It was just after dawn and halfway between shift changes, that Napoleon and April heard a commotion at the gate. First there was shouting from within the barn structure, which Napoleon was sure hid an underground entrance to the Thrush base. Then a bang and the sound of splintering wood at the door. A moment later something large and grey burst out of it, followed by yelling that sounded as much terrified as anything else. Napoleon and April both crouched behind the cover of their boulder and watched attentively.

All five guards at the gate and their dæmons had turned to face toward this approaching figure, though at least one looked on the verge of cutting and running. Some of them tried to shoot at it, but it was a moving target and nothing seemed to hit. The first hint of what that target was came now, as a savage snarling growl, but that was soon drowned out by the terrified scream of the guard it had launched itself at.

"What _is_ that?" April asked, even as Kyree sprang from her perch in the tree and swooped in to have a look. One Thrush guard now lay on the ground, unmoving, and the grey attacker moved on to another, throwing off a lunge by his mastiff dæmon as if it were nothing. Then like lightning, he was upon the guard, who only screamed and struggled ineffectually.

"I don't know, but it's giving us an opening," Napoleon said, gun out and ready to move forward. Saphina all but quivered at his side, ready to be off on the hunt. Two guards were on the ground now, two were running, and the third had his back to Napoleon and April. It was not an opportunity to be missed.

Guns blazing, the two UNCLE agents charged forth. The hapless guard still standing at the gate went down immediately, one of those running made a half hearted attempt at returning fire; the other merely made for the barn, probably to summon help. That one became the next target for their fortuitous distraction, which Napoleon could now see had a sort of canine shape to it. The canine… possibly big enough to be called a wolf, leapt at the fleeing Thrush guard with another terrifying growl, throwing him to the ground and tearing at him with his teeth, ignoring the desperate attack by the man's rottweiler dæmon.

Crouching low as they attained the now empty guard station at the gate, Napoleon saw that April had felled the remaining guard, though more would surely be on their way soon. Now was their chance to get inside, but that… thing… still stood between them and the entrance. It lifted its head now, jaws stained with the blood of the Thrush guards it had savaged and, remarkably, met Napoleon's eyes with its own. At that moment, impossible though it seemed, Napoleon knew just what, or rather who, it was.

"Pasha?" Saphina called, incredulous. She moved towards the wolf, for that was unmistakably what it was, body tense, but ears forward in recognition. The wolf did not move until Saphina had come within a couple of feet. Then, suddenly, the wolf dropped to his haunches, whined, and rolled his head to expose his throat to the approaching panther.

"Saphina?" Napoleon heard the wolf say, to his amazement. "I'm so glad you've come! We need your help!"


	5. Act 4: "... a fairly horrific thing to do…"

Illya's slow return to consciousness brought with it first the sense of being in motion, then the overpowering stench of horse, then the realization that he was trussed, hand and foot, and slung over the source of the stench, not unlike a sack of potatoes. Blinking hard to bring focus and sense to what he was seeing, Illya was finally able to make out the horse in front of him, over whose back were several netted bundles —one of them, he realized, being his Pasha. A low groan to his left made Illya aware that he was not the only burden his horse was carrying, and that his fellow UNCLE agent, Mark Slate, lay trussed just as he was.

"Bloody hell," Slate moaned. "I was looking for a bit of a friendlier welcome."

"I would have liked to give you one," Illya muttered. "Unfortunately our feathered friends had a different idea."

"Quite the welcoming committee that was," Mark agreed. "Any idea where they're taking us?"

"Probably to their base," Illya said. "Which, if you are inclined to see things in a positive light, saves us a trip on foot."

"Well, I'm all for taking the positive view," replied Mark. "I take it our dæmons are somewhere nearby?" 

"Wrapped up in nets, from what I can make out," answered Illya. "On the horse in front of us." On the horse behind them, which Mark was able to see, he reported two more trussed up bodies —almost certainly poor Hanzi and Hanka. Neither of them said anything about Napoleon or April, assuming that the less their captors came to know about the other two UNCLE agents in the neighborhood, the better.

"Lyssa could probably chew her way out," Mark mused. Illya recalled that Mark's black footed ferret dæmon was renowned as an escape artist. "But I don't see how that gets us anywhere. Why ever did Thrush name themselves after a bird when nearly all their members have canine dæmons?"

Indeed the veritable pack of Thrush dæmons, bulldogs, german shepherds, mastiffs and the like trotting alongside the horses, would find Mark's ferret dæmon before he could get far. "I've seen a fair number of snakes and reptiles in the upper echelons," Illya commented. "At any rate, we're better off biding our time, I would agree, and waiting till we're inside the base." For all that it was almost never the original plan to get captured and complete the mission in the process of escaping, it happened often enough that Illya had come to consider getting captured little more than an inconvenience, though often an uncomfortable one.

Mark and Illya passed the rest of the journey in silence for the most part, though both would be taking in whatever information they could. Watching the shadows lengthen as they traveled, Illya guessed the time it took them to reach the base to be around three and a half hours. He also came to the conclusion that it would take Napoleon and April quite a bit longer to travel the same route on foot, and prepared himself for a considerable wait before the 'cavalry' showed up.

Eventually the whole group of Thrush horsemen rode past a guarded gate and into a barn-like building, where the horses were stabled and where Illya, Mark, Hanzi and Hanka (and their respective dæmons) were unceremoniously loaded off their horses and trundled down a long flight of stairs.

This was no primitive cellar, but an extensive, modern laboratory complex —that much Illya could make out merely by scent and sound. How extensive it was, he had no idea, but it was evidently big enough that he and Mark were sorted off to one room, and Hanzi and Hanka to another. The room where Illya and Mark were taken looked like a spare lab, with one large cage on the floor, where the two UNCLE agents were placed in leg manacles, and another across the room, sitting up on a table. This lent support to the idea that it was their dæmons that were to be experimented on, but initially they were left alone. Up on the table, Pasha and Lyssa explored the confines of their own cage and found it entirely secure.

"Damn," Illya muttered, testing his own leg irons. "I was hoping we'd be put with the others, or at least get a glimpse of how many more captives they've got down here."

"Why do you think they separated us?" Mark asked, coming to sit with his back against the side of their cage. "Do you suppose they knew UNCLE had sent someone?"

"I think they separated us because they saw that we didn't look or dress like the other Gyptians," Illya replied, crouching beside his fellow agent. "They will have figured out we were UNCLE when they saw our weapons, however."

"So we did," interrupted a haughty voice, speaking Russian, from just outside the doorway. "Though we long suspected that UNCLE would make an attempt on this facility. We were more than ready for you, as you see." 

The man who entered now, flanked by two Thrush goons and their bulldog dæmons, was stooped with age, though his narrow eyes were sharp with menacing intelligence. He wore a lab coat, as white as the wisps of hair circling his bald pate. His sharply contrasting black snake dæmon coiled contentedly over his shoulders. Seeing his face and his dæmon, recognizing him after so many years, Illya started to stand, almost forgetting that his enclosure was too small for him to do so.

"Dubovich!" he cried. "Dr Grigoriy Dubovich, why am I even a little bit surprised to see you?"

"Do I know you?" the scientist asked, approaching to get a better look at Illya. In the cage on the table beside him, Pasha stood stiff legged with fury, the fur at his neck raised and bristling, and his lips curled to reveal sharp teeth, ready to tear flesh.

"No," Illya said with an almost-laugh of scorn. "No you do not know me at all, though you have seen me before. I was one of many then, dozens and dozens of innocent young naval cadets, who all blindly followed their officers' orders to their ruin."

"You!" Dubovich cried, coming closer still and crouching low to meet Illya's eyes. "You're the one who survived, number four-seven-three! So you've turned your coat for UNCLE now. Well, you see where that's gotten you. But what excellent luck for me! I've never had the chance to test the device on a dæmon twice. Perhaps that will be the key to my success."

Illya only barely suppressed the urge to throw himself at the scientist, and Pasha snarled so ferociously that Dubovich actually backed away. "It doesn't matter how many lives you ruin," Illya snarled himself. "Your device will never work, and your new Thrush masters will figure that out soon enough, just as the Czar did."

"The Czar!" sneered Dubovich. "A superstitious old cretin who goes running to the priest every Sunday like an old grandmother! He is just another small mind, soon to be left in history's boneyard. My investors at Thrush have shown me they have a far greater vision. Fifty years from now it is _my_ name which will be found in the history books as maker of kings and founder of empires!"

"Fifty _hours_ from now your device will only have produced yet more drooling vegetables with deformed and crippled dæmons," Illya said, voice dripping with scorn. "And your 'investors' will want to know what you have to show them for all their efforts and investments. On that day, I do not think you will find Thrush to be very much more 'visionary' than the Czar."

None of this penetrated the scientist, Illya could see. He only shook his head and said, "It's possible that you will live to see how wrong you are, but more than likely you won't. My device has never been tested on a dæmon twice, so I am certain to learn a great deal, whatever the results for you. I believe I'll schedule this procedure for tomorrow morning, as I've other business to attend to today."

He turned and left then, without a word of farewell, turning off the lights and locking the door as he went.

"Sorry," said Illya after a moment of darkness and silence. "I hope you weren't expecting dinner."

"Would've been nice," Mark replied. "But I ate before we I left, anyhow. Lyssa, have you found any way out?"

"Sorry, guv," Lyssa spoke with her counterpart's British mannerisms. "We're locked up tight as a tick, I'm afraid. Plan B is a go, though, whenever you say."

"Plan B?" Illya asked.

"Plan B is that she hides in a corner somewhere —makes herself invisible," Mark says. "So the jailer, or whoever, _thinks_ she's escaped."

"Next best thing," Illya said admiringly.

"We've often found it so," Mark agreed. "So, what's the low-down on this Dubovich chap?"

"I suppose now is as good a time for an in-depth briefing as any," Illya said, settling himself into a corner. "Dubovich's 'device' is based on the earlier discovery of another scientist, that certain types of radiation cause a dæmon's form to destabilize. The idea, which he successfully sold to the Imperial Ministry of Defence some fifteen years ago, is that his device would create adult soldiers whose dæmons could change form at will."

"I take it he can't actually do that?" Marked checked.

"Not even close," replied Illya. "All he's ever been able to do is damage or destroy dæmons' ability to control their form completely… which is a fairly horrific thing to do to one person, let alone hundreds, as he has."

"Hundreds!?" cried Mark.

"To be honest, I have no idea of the exact number," Illya said. "I certainly had no way of knowing how many others took part in the trial I was involved in, and we still don't have any real intel on the size of the operation here."

" _You_ were part of the earlier trial?" Mark said. "He called you 'the one who survived', didn't he… Does that mean that you were the only one?"

"I… I have no idea, really," Illya said, shaking his head, though he knew Mark couldn't see it in the dark. "We were each processed in small groups. The invitation was an open one, however, for anyone in the Naval Academy who wanted to get into the submarine corps, but whose dæmon was over the size limit."

"Why did you want to get into the submarine corps?" Mark asked. "Isn't it more dangerous?"

"More dangerous and unpleasant," Illya confirmed, "but with much higher opportunities for promotion and advancement. Anyone in the Naval Academy with the least ambition wanted to get into the submarine corps."

Mark thought about this for a moment in silence and Illya knew what he was going to ask when he spoke again. "Your Pasha," Mark said finally. "He'd have no trouble passing the size limit now, would he?"

"Not at all," Illya answered. "We served with distinction, got the promotions we had hoped for, and were eventually given the opportunity to be admitted into training for the ISS. But my Pasha did not originally settle into the form in which you see him today."

Mark was quiet again for a moment. "Bloody hell, mate," he said at last. "And… what you said about 'drooling vegetables'? That's what happened to all the others?"

"The few that I happened to see," Illya said. "They controlled all of us very carefully to begin with, and limited what we were able to see, as much as they could. Honestly, I'm just as glad I didn't see more than I did."

"Right," Mark said uncomfortably after another long pause. "And on that pleasant note, I believe I'm going to try and get some shut-eye. Lyssa, don't forget, plan B the moment you hear anyone coming in."

"Right-oh, guv," said Lyssa.

"And how should I play it?" asked Pasha.

"Feign ignorance?" suggested Illya.

"That I can do," his dæmon smirked, and Illya could hear him curl up as he usually did before sleeping. After a moment or two, Illya did the same.

 

The sound of the bolt being turned in the door woke both agents and their dæmons long before anyone entered or turned on the lights. The brief scurrying sound from the cage across the room told Illya that Lyssa was enacting 'plan B' with time to spare. His internal clock suggested that he'd been asleep for four or five hours, making it now early morning. If they were coming to take either him or Mark's dæmon to be 'tested', then now must be when they made their move. There was no way Illya was going to let either of them be subject to Dubovich's infernal device.

The door to the lab opened and Illya closed his eyes, waiting for the lights to be turned on. When he opened them again, blinking hard to adjust to the brightness, he saw a Thrush scientist, wearing a labcoat, his toad dæmon riding in a bulging pocket. He was carrying a capture stick and approaching the cage with their dæmons. A guard stood at the door, mastiff dæmon at his side.

The lab-coated Thrushie paused before the cage. "Why are there not two dæmons in here?" he demanded loudly.

"Don't ask me," said the guard. "There were two when we locked up last night." The scientist whirled to face Illya and Mark.

"Where is it?" he repeated. "We all know it can't have gone far!"

"She's an independent-minded gal," Mark said with a shrug. "She don't always tell me where she's going."

The man in the lab coat cursed and shouted at the guard to keep his eye on Illya and Mark, then he returned to the cage with the dæmons, capture stick at the ready. "He asked for the fox first anyhow," he said, "and I'm told you won't mind having a little distance between you."

Mark's dæmon had hidden herself so well, even Illya couldn't see her. Instead, Illya kept his eye on his own dæmon as the scientist unlocked the cage door and maneuvered the loop of the capture stick into the doorway. Snarling, his hackles raised, Pasha backed away from the trap, crouching in the far corner. 

The cage was small, and the man operating the capture stick fairly experienced, but Pasha managed to evade it for several minutes, much to the scientist's frustration. Lyssa remained in hiding, waiting for the scientist to become even more distracted, and Illya sensed that time was coming soon, for the man's patience was clearly fraying. After Pasha ducked yet another jab with the capture stick, the dodge brought him close enough to the door for the scientist to try and simply grab. Though his hands were covered in thick gloves, the violation of it, as a stranger's fingers closed around his dæmon's fur, still shook Illya, and Pasha yelped in distress.

It was at this moment, as the lab-coated man dragged Pasha through the cage door by the scruff of his neck, that Illya felt the opening well of panic and something more grab him by the guts. It was an indescribable feeling but one that Illya knew all too well, for all that he'd never expected to feel it again. It was over fifteen years ago that a young, impressionable Ensign Kuryakin had naively allowed his dæmon to be subjected to the device which had altered his form, not knowing at the time what a wrenching, profoundly wrong change the device would work in them both, nor how small the chance was that they would survive.

Having survived, Illya never expected to experience such a thing again, and never imagined that any circumstances would trigger such a change in his dæmon. It was probably the restimulation of those memories, Illya would later reflect, plus the proximity of the radiation from the device and possibly even the terrified panic that gripped them both at the stranger's touch that triggered Pasha's transformation. Impossible though it seemed at the moment, Illya knew exactly what was happening, even as he collapsed to his knees, mouth open in a silent scream. Then there was something like a living explosion of grey fur, teeth and claws at the cage door, and with it came a terrible snarling and a human scream of shock and mortal fear.

In a brutally violent second, the scientist was on the floor, his white labcoat stained with the blood gushing from his torn throat, and a massive grey shape, far larger than an arctic fox, was bounding across the room to grapple with the guard's dæmon. All Illya caught of that conflict was a momentary burst of snarls and yelps, as he himself was curled into a ball, trying to get past the feeling of having his guts turned inside out. The yelping quickly devolved to pained whining, followed by the very truncated scream of a man having his savaged.

Illya thought he heard Mark's exclamation of, "Bloody hell!" in the silence that followed. When he managed to uncurl himself, it was just in time to see the furry streak of lightning that was Mark's Lyssa, racing over to grab up the keys from the fallen guard.

"You all right, old man?" Mark asked him, still a little bug-eyed in astonishment as Lyssa worked the lock on their cage.

"Yes, yes," Illya said, panting a bit but recovering quickly. "Pasha! Go, find the way out and find Napoleon, he's sure to be waiting at the perimeter with April."

Pasha gave an affirmative bark and was off like a shot, claws skittering on the concrete floor of the corridor. Then their cage door was opening and Lyssa was handing Mark the keys to their shackles.

"I say, that was a bit unexpected," he said, working to regain his aplomb as he unlocked himself and began on Illya.

"Somewhat," said Illya, shaking the feeling back into his feet. "But I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised, between possible influence of the device somewhere nearby and the… refreshed unpleasant memories."

The scientist hadn't been armed, but the guard had both a sidearm and a machine gun, which Illya and Mark happily availed themselves of. 

"Which way?" Mark asked as they paused to scan the corridor.

"We need to find the prisoners," Illya said. "Find them and free them, and keep an eye out for Hanzi and Hanka, the two who were kidnapped with us. As to which way, well, Pasha went right, so let's go left."

An alarm began to sound just as they headed out in the fortunately empty corridor, but they ran in to resistance as they turned a corner into what looked like a cafeteria. The Thrush men seemed to have no interest in holding their ground, however, and merely seemed to be covering their retreat. Mark and Illya let them, then Lyssa scurried ahead to check for ambushes in the hallway beyond the cafeteria and returned shortly to urge them forward.

This hallway was lined with offices and labs, and from one of them could be heard a heated conversation. Once again Lyssa ran forward, noted that the door was ajar and not latched, then slowly began to push it open, so that the tableau within was gradually revealed to Illya and Mark . Those taking part hardly noticed that the door was now wide open.

"It _will_ work, I tell you!" could be heard from the lab-coated Dubovich, who was backed up against the wall of his office, clutching a fat binder in front of him, either as an offering, or an ineffectual shield. It would most certainly be ineffectual against the gun being pointed at him by a uniformed Thrush man with a wolverine dæmon. No flunky this, Illya thought.

"You've had your chance, doctor," said the uniformed man. "And while I may have been willing to let you continue in your useless attempts for another week or so a few days ago, now that our cover is blown, Thrush Central agrees with me, that any effort spent on setting you up in a new facility would be a complete waste. My only orders now are to clean up after myself."

"No! You can't!" Dubovich's snake dæmon reared up and hissed at the Thrush commander, and the man himself looked around wildly and spotted Illya and Mark just outside the door, guns drawn. "You! UNCLE men!" he cried desperately. "You can't let him kill me! You need me! My secrets! My secrets can change the world!"

"Sorry, mate, but your secrets are rubbish," said Mark. "We'd take you in for questioning, if you were available, but if not…"

"No, letting UNCLE have you, no matter how 'rubbish' your secrets are, would not be professional," said the Thrush chief, and without further ado put two bullets in doctor Dubovich, who crumpled silently to the floor. The Thrush man turned then with lightning speed, his gun now pointing out at Mark and Illya.

"I'll be no guest of UNCLE's either," he said. "And I assure you that if you shoot me, one of you, at least, will die in exchange. On the floor, the Thrush man's wolverine dæmon faced off against a snarling Lyssa —utterly unintimidated by their difference in size.

Illya grimaced, not keen on letting a Thrush commander escape, but not deeming it worth another agent's life. He and Mark exchanged glances, then backed away, giving the man room to move into the corridor. He backed out, never taking his eye off Illya and Mark, which was how Napoleon, appearing behind him at the far end of the corridor, was able to take his time and get a perfect shot with the sleep dart. The Thrush man's trigger finger convulsed as he felt the dart strike, but the shot went wild and nowhere near any of the UNCLE agents.

April now greeted them cheerfully from beyond Napoleon, and the four agents gathered jubilantly in the corridor, taking a moment to secure their Thrush prisoner and report on each other's circumstances.

"And where's Pasha now?" Illya asked, grateful that Napoleon and April had asked no questions about his dæmon's new form, and honestly amazed that they'd recognized him in the first place.

"He went tearing off to the left at the bottom of the stairs on the way back in," answered Napoleon. "Said he was going to find Hanzi and Hanka."

Illya nodded, closing his eyes and looking inward to find the thin stretched connection to his dæmon and try and discern where he was. In a moment he had his answer, plus a terrible apprehension that what Pasha had found was not good. "They're this way!" he said, setting off up the corridor at a run.

He appreciated the sight of April's osprey dæmon swooping ahead of them down the hallway, as Illya was not of a mind to take precautions at the moment. He followed his instincts through a series of twists and turns, finally arriving in a large, low ceilinged room filled with cages, like a cross between a prison and a zoo. At one end of the room, the human and dæmon occupants were active, clutching at the bars and shouting at the newly appeared UNCLE agents to let them out. At the other end… The handful of human figures there lay curled in foetal balls, or rocked ceaselessly. Their dæmon occupants did not bear looking at, even for a second.

"Hanzi! Hanka!" Illya called as he moved down the row of cages. Behind him, April, Mark and Napoleon were unlocking the cages and releasing the grateful occupants, but Illya's eyes sought his dæmon and found him eventually, in front of a cage in the middle of the room. Beyond this cage, the occupants had all clearly been subject to Dubovich's device. Immediately to the right of where Pasha sat, Illya recognized Hanka, her face wet with tears as she appeared to be pleading with someone. That someone was in the cage to the left and was moving desperately, as if trying repeatedly to pick something up and then drawing back. Drawing closer still, Illya now saw that this person was Hanzi, but when he saw the young man's dæmon he had to look away.

Hanzi's hare dæmon had not been affected as severely as the other dæmons subject to Dubovich's invention, but she had been affected nonetheless. The dæmon could not keep to any single form for more than a second or two, but changed continuously, appearing as a badger one second, then a cat, then a squirrel, then a lizard, then a rat, then a small pig, ceaselessly. It was exhausting just to look at, and Hanzi seemed to be trying to calm his dæmon by gathering her into his arms. Every time he tried to take hold of her, however, the dæmon's shape changed again.

Hanka seemed to be alternately imploring Hanzi and his dæmon, whose name Illya recalled was Jemeny, and simply pleading for the changing to stop. Her flying squirrel dæmon huddled on her shoulder, shaking with horror. Illya felt that sense of horror himself, down to his bones. He dropped to kneel in front of the cage, reaching through the bars to take one of Hanzi's restless hands.

"Hanzi, stop now, stop, look at me," Illya commanded, pulling the young man away from what he sought to do. "Don't look at her; look at me."

Illya had no clear idea what he meant to do, but there was a desperate need within him to fix this, and a flicker of hope that he knew how. He'd done it himself, once, after all.

"I can't make her stop, Illya!" the young man cried, glancing over at Illya for a second before turning back to his dæmon. "I can't… she can't…"

"I know, Hanzi, I know." Illya tried with all his heart to pour the truth of that knowing into his voice as he reached out, this time to take Hanzi's face between his hands and physically turn it away from his dæmon. "But you have to look away, now, look at me; listen to what I tell you."

After a moment's terrible internal struggle, Hanzi tore his attention away from his tormented dæmon and turned his wide-eye gaze on Illya. "That's good, Hanzi. You're very brave," Illya said. "Now tell me when this happened. When did they take Jemeny to the device?"

"J-just this morning," Hanzi said. "N-not so long ago…"

"Good, that's good," Illya soothed. "Now I want you to really listen to me. We can fix this, Hanzi. We can make it better again. I did it, me and my Pasha."

"Y-you did?" Hanzi gulped.

Part of Illya was terrified that he was giving the boy false hope, but another part knew that Hanzi had to believe, with every fiber of his being, that he could be saved, and so he continued.

"I did," Illya answered. "Years ago, when I was much the same age as you. Now listen and do what I tell you. First, close your eyes." Hanzi did as he was told, nodding obediently. Illya took his hands away from the boy's face and took hold of his hands. "Now, I need you to think about Jemeny, about what you like the most about her, what she does every day that makes you smile, anything that you remember."

"She… she's really good at telling stories," Hanzi said after a moment. "She knows so many, and songs too. She always knows all the words. I'm never bored when we're out minding the flocks."

"That's good," Illya said, squeezing Hanzi's hand. "Now, think about how she helps you; how you depend on her for certain things."

"Well… no one and nothing ever gets near us without her hearing it, when we're out with the sheep," he said. "Her ears are so keen, they don't miss anything. She once heard ants coming to steal my lunch."

"Good, now go on, tell me more about her ears," Illya encouraged.

"She puts them straight up when she's listening," Hanzi complied. "And they're never still, angling this way and that. Nobody sneaks up behind us, ever."

"And when she's relaxed?" Illya prompted.

"Then she lays them down on her back, and it's like they completely disappear," Hanzi reminisced with a smile. "She likes it when I stroke them then."

"And what do they feel like?"

"Oh, they're so soft," Hanzi said, longing. "Not even velvet is so soft as my Jemeny's ears."

"Imagine you can feel them now, Hanzi," Illya said, voice hushed. "You know what she feels like under your fingers. Feel it as if you were touching her." Under his own hand, Illya could feel Hanzi's fingers reaching out to touch the memory. Illya withdrew to let Hanzi's hands shape his dæmon in the air.

"I… I almost can," whispered Hanzi.

"That's it," Illya encouraged. "Now feel what it's like to hold her in your arms, like you do when you're relaxing by the fire in the evening. Tell me how it feels."

"She fits so perfect, right there," Hanzi's hands framed the space his dæmon ought to occupy. "She tucks her feet here, on my arm, and fits her head just under my hand, so I can pet her. She feels like a part of me."

"She _is_ a part of you, Hanzi," Illya said softly. "She's right here." And he leaned forward to lay his hand over the young Gyptians's heart. "She's always been here and she'll always be here, never changing. Can you feel that?" Wordless with emotion, Hanzi nodded.

So intent was he on his words and the young man before him, Illya had not even once glanced over at the unfortunate dæmon, but in that moment even _he_ thought he felt something. A second later he heard Pasha whine quietly and nudge at Illya's shoulder. Then there was a motion to his right and a sandy grey hare was pushing herself into the space that Hanzi had made for her in his arms.

"Oh Jemeny! My Jemeny!" Hanzi cried, burying his face in fur that was, possibly not exactly the same color it had been when Illya had seen her last, but none of that was important. Illya knew this better than anybody. Shaken with relief, he rose to step away from the cage and found that Napoleon was standing by with the key and had already freed Hanka. As soon as the door to Hanzi's cage was open she practically fell upon him, closing Hanzi and Jemeny in her arms as her flying squirrel dæmon clung to Jemeny's ears and chattered with joy.

Caught up in the scene before him, Illya started to back away and found himself stumbling over Pasha's considerable bulk and sitting abruptly. He was surprised then to find himself shaking with… relief? Memory? He was not sure, but suddenly all he could do was to gather his dæmon, his ferocious grey protector of old, into his arms, for the first time in many years, and hold him tight.

The hand he felt on his shoulder a few moments later came as no intrusion —was, in fact, almost as much a part of him as the dæmon in his arms. He leaned into the touch and soon an arm was around his shoulders, Napoleon's side pressed against his, his great, sleek panther dæmon likewise leaning against Illya's Pasha, cleaning the blood from his muzzle with wide swipes of her sandpapery tongue. Her rumbling purr vibrated through all four of them, speaking for the moment better than any words possibly could.


	6. Epilogue: "So you're not so stupid, you UNCLE men."

April called UNCLE Bratislava for a mop-up crew, and a couple of hours later three helicopters —two from UNCLE and one from the Red Cross— came in to land in an open field adjacent to the captured base. By that time Napoleon and Illya, with Hanzi and Hanka's help, had sorted out which of the horses were theirs and were making preparations to return with them to the caravan camp where Petya, Dragana and Magda waited.

Napoleon felt, and Illya agreed, that they owed it to Petya to explain to him personally, that, while no sign of his nephew had been found, he would almost certainly be among the occupants of countless unmarked, shallow graves which they'd discovered in the woods surrounding the base. It was not good news but, even Hanka and Hanzi agreed, it was better than no news.

Mark and April agreed to accompany their Thrush prisoner to UNCLE Bratislava and deliver a preliminary report, leaving Napoleon and Illya free to make what Napoleon termed a 'goodwill gesture' to the Gyptians. Waverly grudgingly granted them four days to do so, stipulating that they'd be finding their way back to UNCLE Bratislava on their own dime. Napoleon was willing to bet that the Gyptians would help.

It was late afternoon by the time they set out on the four-hour horseback journey from the Thrush base to their three-wagon Gyptians camp. Napoleon looked forward to the trip being scenic and relaxed, as It was a splendid, high summer day. Scenic it was; from river valley to mountain ridge, there was natural beauty everywhere Napoleon looked. No matter how spectacular the view, however, it was back to his partner that Napoleon's gaze kept falling.

Illya drew the eye naturally; his straw gold locks, ruffled in the mountain breeze, standing in sharp contrast to the dark hair and complexion of their travelling companions. It was pleasant as well to see him relaxed, flirting idly with Hanka and smiling with endearing humility in response to Hanzi's oft reiterated gratitude. Such unguarded expressions were rare to see on Illya's countenance, and Napoleon drank in the sight of them, committing each subtle gesture to memory against darker times.

Already locked into that treasure chest of Napoleon's memory was the sound of Illya's voice as he'd spoken to Hanzi earlier, calming him into helping his dæmon settle into a single form again. Napoleon had never heard his partner's voice pitched to such a gentle tone. It had been so full of caring and vulnerable with emotion —all the things that Illya hid so vigilantly most of the time. Napoleon had not been fooled by his partner's facade for some years, but he knew all the same what a great act of daring it had been for Illya to lay himself so open in that moment.

Napoleon knew why; he'd have taken no less of a risk to save a young innocent —who they, themselves had placed in the path of danger— not only from death, but from an unspeakably horrific death. Neither one of them wanted to have such a thing on their conscience. Taking risks was, of course, part of an UNCLE agent's job description, but there were risks and there were risks. Napoleon could hardly admire his partner more than he already did, but what he'd seen Illya do today struck Napoleon as one of the bravest acts he'd ever witnessed.

So if, as his horse led him from one inspiring vista to another, Napoleon began to think that his feelings for his partner had moved beyond mere admiration some time ago, considering today's events made his situation as clear as the mountain air he was breathing.

Their arrival back at the camp was, for the most part, a joyful occasion. By now, Petya had a pretty good idea that his nephew would not be returning, and sorrowed at the news he would have to give his sister. It was far more merciful, however, that she would know for sure, and possibly even have a grave to visit. It was more than cold comfort, Petya insisted, and thanked the UNCLE agents for having prevented any more young people from suffering his fate.

For that reason, he and the other Gyptians insisted, they would celebrate tonight and show their gratitude to UNCLE as best they could. Even a group as small as five Gyptians is capable of generating an excellent celebration, and so there was delicious food, fine drink and lively music, that left no room in any heart for anything but joy.

It came as no surprise to anyone when Hanzi and Hanka blushingly excused themselves and retired for the evening before anyone else. Petya offered to sleep on Dragana's loveseat to give the couple their privacy, but that, Dragana pointed out, would leave Napoleon and Illya without accommodation.

"It's a fine night," Illya said, fairly mellow after more than a few cups of honey-wine. "Just throw a blanket or two under one of the caravans. We can sleep there."

A cursory investigation revealed that there were fewer rocks and lumps in the grass under Dragana's caravan than any of the others. Illya cleared away a handful of sticks and branches from the space, then went to answer a call of nature, so it was Napoleon who went with Dragana to receive an armload of bedding. Before she handed them over, however, she made Napoleon sit on steps of her caravan and stood before him in the manner of a parent about to deliver a lecture.

"I've made it a rule in the past, never to interfere with such business when it is not my own," she began. "But the two of you…" She shook her head in exasperation.

"The two of us what?" Napoleon asked, wondering if they'd transgressed somehow, but nearly sure that they hadn't. Dragna frowned, but more as if looking for the right way to phrase something, rather than in displeasure.

" _He_ thinks… in fact, he is quite sure," and she gestured towards the copse of trees where Illya had disappeared a moment ago, "that you would have no… interest in him. Because your dæmon is female and because, apparently, you keep the company of women quite often. _I_ happen to know that such 'indications' and past habits are meaningless in the presence of true love, but there is only one person in the world who will be able to tell him differently, and it isn't me."

Napoleon took this all in, replaying the old woman's words in his mind one at a time. It was the phrase 'true love' that made her meaning unmistakable, and all the implications that followed left Napoleon glad that he was already sitting down. Saphina turned to gaze at him with her own wide-eyed astonishment.

"You're saying," Napoleon replied reflexively, because really, everything was pretty much crystal clear already, "that he, that Illya has… feelings… for me, that he believes are… not returned."

"Will you tell me that he has it right?" she demanded.

"I wouldn't dare," answered Napoleon, admitting defeat before firing a shot.

"So you're not so stupid, you UNCLE men," Dragna said with a grin. "Here," she handed Napoleon the bundle of blankets and pillows. "Go straighten things out."

Napoleon took the proffered bedding almost sheepishly, retiring to the underneath of the caravan to make up a bed. Magda stopped by on her way to her own caravan and handed him a lantern, and then Petya came and gifted them with the last quarter of the bottle of honey-wine. Napoleon now had everything he could want, except for Illya.

He lay back in the bedding to wait for a while, having no desire to interrupt the man in the middle of anything. As the minutes passed, however, Napoleon began to wonder if something wasn't up, so he rolled out from under the caravan to see where Illya might be. He spotted his partner quickly enough under the light of a three-quarters moon, crouched with his now rather more sizable dæmon beside a boulder at the edge of the clearing. The two seemed deep in conversation so once more Napoleon waited, giving Illya his space.

After only a little while, however, Napoleon found himself moving closer again, hardly even aware of having made the decision to do so. He kept to the shadow of one of the wagons, not so much to hide himself as to preserve Illya's privacy. When he got close enough to hear the sound of Illya's voice, but not the words he said, Napoleon stopped. He would not intrude, but he needed to know at least the tenor of the conversation, if Illya was sad or angry, or if he needed help.

In the moonlight, Illya's blonde hair had much the same silver cast as his wolf's grey fur. They had put their heads together, speaking so softly that Napoleon could barely hear them. The topic was something serious and personal, and the pitch of Illya's voice was not unlike how it had been with Hanzi back at the Thrush base. Hearing his partner's voice gentled thusly again brought back a memory, but not the one Napoleon had expected.

_"Shhh, Napoleon… you're safe…"_ Suddenly the words floated up from the muddled mess of recollections from his time suffering from snakebite. It was Illya's voice he heard in his memory, as gentle and full of emotion as he had ever known it, comforting him when he'd been reliving the horrors of his plane crash in the Pacific. Illya had opened himself up, taken that terrifying risk for Napoleon, without saying a word about it.

It was at that moment that Napoleon's long honed spy-sense told him that he was being watched. Illya and Pasha both had turned their heads to look his way, as if he'd shouted for their attention. He stepped out into the moonlight to reveal himself and saw that Illya's expression was calm, if introspective.

"Everything okay?" he checked.

"We are well," Illya answered, standing to walk with Napoleon back to the caravan underneath which their bed had been laid. "Homey," he commented when he saw it.

Napoleon lowered himself to sit with his back against one of the wagon wheels and Illya dropped down beside him on his left. Their two dæmons followed suit, stretching out on the grass, Saphina to Napoleon's right, and Pasha to Illya's left. "Honey-wine for your thoughts?" Napoleon asked, reaching back for the honey wine he'd stashed next to the wheel.

Illya took the bottle and a generous swallow, then wedged it between his knees as he looked out at the stars. "We've had to make a decision, Pasha and I," he said finally. "He… that is to say, he and I… we find that the wolf does not… feel right, anymore. The fox form… pulls at him, Pasha says. And perhaps it is, these days, a better… expression of my true self." Pasha lifted his head to rest in Illya's lap, and he began to idly scratch the wolf's ears.

"I always thought the fox suited you," Napoleon said. "But then, the wolf suits you in a way too. It's still Pasha; I can feel that."

"To tell the truth," Illya said, "I am surprised, though highly gratified, that you recognized him."

"Given the circumstances, it almost had to be Pasha… ow!" Napoleon was interrupted by the sensation of Saphina gently biting his ankle. "Also, Saphina recognized him first." Over on Illya's left Napoleon could hear a wolfish laugh.

"I think I needed him to be a wolf, when I was younger," Illya said after another pull at the bottle. "There were so many reasons a small boy might need a protector, in that time and place. My life is different now. I've become different, perhaps truer to my own nature than in the days when survival for survival's sake was my primary concern."

"I'd be pleased to think that you've become truer to your own nature in the time that I've known you," Napoleon said.

Illya was quiet for a little while after that, then said, still looking out at the night sky, "It is somewhat… uncomfortable, when he changes."

"Tell me what you need," Napoleon replied.

"Just… be here," Illya said, so quietly Napoleon could scarcely hear him.

"Not going anywhere, partner mine," Napoleon said, taking one of Illya's hands in his. He looked down at where their hands were joined, feeling it somehow impolite to watch another man's dæmon change like this. Beside him, Illya made a low sound, as if someone had punched him in the gut and he was trying not to show it. He doubled over suddenly, his hand clutching painfully at Napoleon's, then he gasped, as if released from something, and sat back, breathing hard. There, at Illya's feet, now sat Pasha the fox, all liquid silver in the moonlight.

The moving shadow that was Saphina appeared at his side a second later, licking his face and head-butting him. Pasha retaliated by getting one of her ears between his teeth and worrying it. At his side, Illya leaned back against the wagon wheel, letting his head tilt back as he lifted the bottle of wine to drain the last of it. Napoleon's gaze was locked on his partner's profile as he drank, at how his eyelashes fell over his cheeks, how his throat worked as he swallowed. Having emptied it, Illya let the bottle drop to his side, and let his face be tilted towards Napoleon's when Napoleon brushed his fingers against Illya's jaw.

Their mouths all but fell together then, lips brushing against lips, tongues venturing out to taste. They went from venturing to boldly exploring in a heartbeat, and in another handful of heartbeats the kiss became heated and carnal. Tasting the sweetness of the honey-wine in Illya's mouth, Napoleon thought, _he will always taste like this to me._ After a time, however, Illya drew back, his eyes piercingly focused on Napoleon's, as if to divine some truth there.

"This… is new," he said, almost stating it as a question.

"What is?" Napoleon asked.

"I have never seen you show interest in anyone other than women… previously," Illya said carefully.

"You've never seen me in love before, partner mine," Napoleon said, thinking that there was no point in mincing words, and that furthermore it was surely his turn to risk vulnerability. He knew one long moment of terrible uncertainty, as Illya's first reaction was to stare at him blankly.

"Love?" he said after a moment.

Napoleon wished in that moment that Illya had not drunk up all the wine, as his mouth had gone dry, and he hardly knew how to answer the man now in any case. Pasha, however, had no such difficulty.

"Oh, don't be an idiot," he said, climbing to stand on Illya's lap with his front feet resting on his chest. "And don't pretend you didn't hear. This is Napoleon. He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it."

"Precisely so," Saphina spoke up from where she lazed on the grass. "And, I might add, it certainly took him long enough to find the word for what was right in front of him for ages, and even then he hardly dared until an old woman shamed him into it."

"Dragana," Illya said, a certain sheepish resignation in his voice. Napoleon shrugged.

"There's certainly no arguing with the woman," he said. "Especially when she's right. And she _is_ right, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Illya answered, his voice softening to that pitch that went straight to Napoleon's heart. "I thought she couldn't be. I thought it was impossible, but I have to say, I am not sorry to be proven wrong." It was Illya who moved to initiate the kiss now, and Napoleon opened to him gladly.

Their hands found a part to play this time. Napoleon let his drft through the silken strands of Illya's hair and felt Illya's framing his face, though both soon wandered in search of skin and further contact.

"Shall we retire to the boudoir?" Napoleon asked, lips caressing the curve of his partner's ear. Illya gave a chuckle at Napoleon's overstatement of their sleeping arrangement, but acquiesced just the same.

Removing each others' clothing in the low space under the wagon proved to be a far more entertaining erotic exercise that either had imagined, in part because their dæmons came to lend their assistance, with no regard for who they were helping. Or maybe it was particular regard, but just the opposite of how it had been in the past. It did make sense that if it was Illya unbuttoning Napoleon's shirt, Pasha should be the one tugging his sleeve free. Likewise, as Napoleon pushed Illya's sweater up in front, hands following the contours of his slim, muscled torso, Saphina was pulling it up from the back, nuzzling the back of Illya's neck.

Even in the past, when Illya happened to touch Saphina, in urgency, necessity or even by mistake, it had never seemed the intrusion that a stranger's touch had. Now… it was a lover's touch, to feel Pasha's soft fur against his arm, or feel Saphina playfully scent mark his partner, rubbing her face against his shoulder. As trousers were tugged away and more skin became exposed to the cool mountain air, it was the dæmons who pulled the blankets up to cover their poor, furrless counterparts. The two dæmons then settled in between the two UNCLE agents, each stretched out alongside the other's human. Napoleon was touched, but also just a little frustrated.

"We'll let you play in a minute," Pasha said to Napoleon, nipping him lightly on the chin. "But we begin something tonight, and it is necessary for us to speak, you and I."

"Alright," Napoleon said, reaching up daringly to fondle Pasha's ears as he had seen Illya do. The fox smiled and licked Napoleon's nose.

"You belong to him now, even if it has mostly been so for some time," he said. "From today it becomes something more, something new. As you belong to him, so you also belong to me. I think that is clear, yes?"

"Crystal," Napoleon said, meaning it.

"Likewise, he belongs to you, as he has before, but more-so," Pasha continued. "And so I am yours as well. You will not forget this."

"Never," Napoleon said.

"We are very pleased, Saphina and I," Pasha said, giving Napoleon's face a long wet lick. "And very thankful for the circumstances that brought us to such a wise old woman. We'll leave you to your fun now, my love."

Both dæmons stood now, stretching before stepping over Napoleon and Illya's heads to curl up together in the grass just above them. Napoleon reached over to extinguish the lamp, then turned to gather Illya into his arms. "My love," Napoleon echoed Pasha's words as he kissed Illya's face, trying them out for the first time and finding that he liked saying them as much as he liked hearing them from his lover's dæmon.

" _My_ love," Illya retorted, nibbling Napoleon's ear. "I think that was some sort of secret dæmon ceremony, for when two people… start, what we are starting."

"I thought it felt something like saying vows," Napoleon said, nuzzling Illya's jaw. "It felt right, too."

"Yes, it did," Illya said. "But enough words for now, yes? I have better uses for your mouth." He did not wait for Napoleon's answer, which came, perforce, as an affirmative hum. There were a few words, shouted, pleaded and moaned, later on, but Illya got his wish, for the most part. They spoke instead with touches, caresses, and the gift of mutual ecstasy, and the conversation lasted well into the night.

Dragana was, mercifully, not the least bit smug the next morning, and none of the other Gyptians acted at all differently toward them, as Napoleon and Illya helped hitch up the horses and get the wagons on the road to rejoin their band. The Gyptians did indeed help the two UNCLE men get back to Bratislava on time, and there Napoleon and Illya fell back into the normal patterns of their life as if nothing had changed.

Things had changed though, and not just that Illya eventually moved in with Napoleon, retaining his own flat only as a bolt hole. It didn't escape Waverly's notice, nor that of his badger dæmon, who had raked the two agents and their dæmons with his discerning gaze upon their return. In the end, Waverly only felt it necessary to remind them that he would be paying attention to their success rate —not that he expected that to change.

"Well, that went better than might have been expected," Illya said, leaving the debriefing, Pasha trotting contentedly at his side.

"You expected Waverly to have a problem with… us?" Napoleon asked, feeling Saphina brush up against his leg and then move to walk a pace or two ahead of them, where Pasha joined her.

"I suppose one never knows what to expect with Mr Waverly," Illya said. "Though it is in _my_ nature to expect the worst."

"And you see, that's how he knew we would work well together from the beginning," Napoleon speculated. "You're a pessimist and I'm an optimist."

"More like, you're reliably rash and impetuous, while I'm the sober voice of reason," retorted Illya.

" _Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,_ partner mine," Napoleon said with a smile, leaning in to nudge Illya's shoulder with his own, seeing their dæmons doing the very same thing. " _Po-tay-to, po-tah-to._ "

 

=FIN=


End file.
